


Blood, Sweat, and Tears

by MagnetoTheMagnificent



Series: Summer Omens [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley has OCD, Disabled Crowley (Good Omens), Dyslexic Crowley (Good Omens), Heavy Angst, Married Life, Mental Health Issues, Other, Self-Harm, Sonnets, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:34:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25439296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagnetoTheMagnificent/pseuds/MagnetoTheMagnificent
Summary: Written for @thetunewillcome's Summer Omens prompt 'sweat.'Buckle up, this is going to be a very angsty fic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Summer Omens [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845238
Comments: 2
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

Long before Crowley became known as Crowley, in fact, long before Crowley became known as the demon Crawly, there was an angel known as Penemue. Like all the other angels, he was given a job, and his job was being the angelic scribe. He would sit all through the metaphysical day in Heaven, writing down all that was to happen for the rest of eternity. Everything had already been planned out, long before the Earth or humans were created, and it was Penemue’s task to record what was to come. It seemed strange to Penemue, for everything to be planned out. He reckoned, what was the point of doing anything if you knew what was going to happen? It would be like watching a film after having the plot spoiled already (Coincidentally, spoiling plots became the demon Crowley’s hellish evil pastime).

Eventually, Penemue got himself entangled with the wrong sort of crowd, and may or may not have suggested that the Almighty was being unfair creating an entire world for Their own entertainment. Apparently this wasn’t the sort of thing you could say to the Almighty, and so Penemue found himself stumbling down the metaphysical steps leading up to Heaven, and tumbling head-over-heels into a pit of sulphur, or, as he prefers to call it, sauntering vaguely downwards. All the other Fallen Angels were given the dignity of being cast out dramatically, their wings catching aflame in the breaking dawn. For Penemue, it was a little more anti-climactic. Here is a brief summary of what happened:

God: “For your insolence, you will be punished!”

Penemue: “You can’t punish me, I’ve already written down everything that’s ever going to happen, and it doesn’t say anything about me being punished.”

And then Penemue felt a tingly feeling on his ethereal skin, looked down, and saw scales. And, even though Heaven exists on the metaphysical plane, metaphysical scales do not form good traction on metaphysical polished marble, so Penemue tripped over his own feet and fell. 

If anyone had seen the event take place, they would have sworn they heard Penemue mutter ‘hypocrite’ as he took his fateful plummet. 

For as long as he could remember, Crowley had been unable to read. Well, ‘unable’ is a bit of an overstatement. He could read if he squinted and if the letters were in a certain font, and if he was willing to put up with a migraine and dizziness. So, Crowley could technically read, in the same way that men with male organs could technically lactate. Crowley’s skill with the quill followed the same route as reading, since the two are very closely related. That isn’t to say that Crowley wasn’t eloquent, or wasn’t cultured. One doesn’t necessarily need to write to be a poet, although that does make things easier. But things never came easy to Crowley, did they?

In Mesopotamia, when humans were just fledgelings in the universe, Crowley discovered Cuneiform, a form of writing etched on clay tablets. The alphabet was simple enough, and for some reason, Crowley found it easier to process and form words in that method. Perhaps it was the tactile nature of the writing, or the process in which the sentences were formed. Either way, he was able to write. He was very put out when humans ditched the tablets for papyrus, and later parchment, and he wasn’t able to to record his ideas very well for a long time afterwards. 

Almost six thousand years later, Crowley rediscovered writing when he and Aziraphale, former hereditary enemy, current life partner and best friend, went out to a pottery shop on a date night. Muscle memory kicked in, and Crowley formed a tablet with the clay, and etched “I love you,” into it. He proudly showed it off to the angel, who was almost as excited as he was that he could actually write something legible. And so, next to Aziraphale’s desk in their cottage, there now was a workbench laden with pottery tools and paints. Crowley, ever the perfectionist, didn’t settle for what clay tablets used to be used for- the equivalent of cheap post-it notes one could toss afterwards. Now that he was able to write, he wanted to make an art of it. He would painstakingly carve sonnets and adorations into neat, square clay tablets. After the clay was dried, he painted the tablets and decorated them with gemstones and other pretty things. Then, and only then, would he gift them to Aziraphale, because he wanted only the best for his partner. If, at any point in the process he found a flaw, he would smash the tablet and start over. 

As the anniversary of the Apocalypse drew closer, Crowley worked hard on a new sonnet for Aziraphale. It had an unorthodox rhyming sequence, which Crowley prided himself on. He painted the tablet, and decorated it with some of his down feathers from his last moult. He also added apple seeds and fig seeds to the embellishments. Finally, on the day of the anniversary, after a lovely dinner which they cooked together, he gave it to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale ran his hand along the trimmings, his face nearly shining with adoration. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he sighed reverently, squeezing the demon’s hand.

“Read it,” Crowley managed to mumble, and the angel smiled, golden wrinkles creasing with fondness. 

He cleared his throat, and, like it was a lost manuscript of Shakespeare’s, began to read. 

“If ever a Demon’s heart could beat,  
Or a lowly Crawler could bask in heat;  
If ever a Snake could walk on feet,  
Or a Curse or Blessing could repeat;  
When the Guardian hides from Medusa’s eyes,  
When the ground-bound Tempter attempts to rise;  
And meet- a bridge of Dark and Light,  
Join their hands and face the Fight;  
In fire and flames, and bold defiance,  
Defend their home and true Alliance.  
I have no heart, but hear it beat;  
My soul is cold, you give me heat.  
Though dust I taste since my defeat-  
Touched by your lips I can taste-”

He paused, his face scrunching into confusion before reading the last word.

“Sweat?”

Crowley’s eyes widened.

“Oh, of course, 'sweet'!" Aziraphale said quickly, right before Crowley snatched the tablet from his soft hands. 

Serpentine eyes anxiously darted across the tablet, and there it was, plain as day now that Aziraphale had pointed it out. There was an ‘a’ where an ‘e’ should have been. A mistake, and imperfection. 

“No!” the demon shouted, frustration and self-loathing boiling beneath his skin.

Before the angel could stop him, he smashed the tablet on the floor, his knees buckling beneath him. He fell on his face, the jagged edges of the destroyed poem cutting into his skin. A broken cry escaped his lips, and he was utterly hopeless. He had failed, again. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said softly, trying to hide the fear in his voice. 

Blood was beginning to pool around where Crowley was coiled on himself. 

“S ruined,” he heard a desolate voice whimper, “I failed you.”

The angel felt his heart rend at those words.

“Oh, my love, you didn’t fail me,” he told him, his voice catching in his throat.

“I did. It wasssssssn’t perfect. I wassssssn’t perfect. Had to be-” 

Crowley sucked in his breath, “had to be perfect. For you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes stung with tears, and he gathered Crowley into his arms. 

“Oh, my dear, my sweet, darling boy. You don’t have to be anything for me. Just you living is enough.”

He held him close to his chest, soothingly rubbing circles into his back. When he felt the demon relax, he gently carried him to bed. He ran his hand across his battered face, and Crowley shuddered a little in his sleep as the wounds healed. 

“My sweet serpent,” he murmured lovingly, as the sonnet’s words ran over in his head. 

“You have a heart, I hear it beat.”


	2. Chapter 2

<https://magnetothemagnificent.tumblr.com/post/624915699892174848/aziraphale-comforting-crowley-in-a-scene-from-the>


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